Pieces
by White Russian
Summary: A different take on the origin of the Joker's clothes. 10 drabbles for 10 pieces of clothing, plus one bonus. :D


**Title:** Pieces

**Characters:** Joker, Harley, various victims

**Disclaimer:** Characters are not mine.

People scarcely notice the suspenders, and it's a shame, because he remembers the origin of this supposedly mundane accessory so _very _well. The former owner did _not_ want to surrender them, and had put up a fight to the spectacularly bloody and slippery end, wailing and moaning out pleas before finally letting them snap from his broken fingers. "No," he'd whimpered, huddled on the ground with blood pooling beneath him, and the Joker smiles at the other clown, waving a finger in admonishment.

"Not supposed to _talk_," he said, and laughed, stepping on the mime's crushed ankle as he leaves.

* * *

When everything's in place, few will notice the shirt, but it's important to keep the ensemble complete. Checking his gang, one catches his eye, and he motions to the lanky and excessively shaky man wearing it, smirking as he shuffles forward.

"Y-you need me, B-Boss?"

He stretches out his hand above the man's shoulder, rubbing his fingers together to feel the fabric, even though he's not touching him. "I'm getting tired of my wardrobe, Twitchy."

Glazed-over eyes bore into him, not understanding, and he starts to smile when the Boss laughs.

Caught in a chokehold, Twitchy earns his name again.

* * *

Although he often tries to convince himself that he shouldn't be bothered by such a thing, it's still _so_ irritating when they stare, amazed that an otherwise unkempt and hygiene-averse psychopath would know how to tie a perfect Windsor knot, his hands perfectly still as they go through the motions, silk sliding between his fingers. He pulls it flush against his neck, and then goes just a _bit_ tighter, smiling when his airway begins to constrict slightly, sending the tiniest jolt of discomfort through him.

They're even more surprised when they found out that he just _bought_ the damn thing.

* * *

The outfit was just missing something, they both agreed, and she lifted the perfect item off the man at the top of the pile, shoving his heavy weight aside. The man was so fat that it had taken three bullets before one finally reached his heart, thereby forcing her to take it in, cutting out large swathes from it before it could fit around him snugly.

Modeling it, she frowned at the missing button, and shrugged her shoulders. "What're you gonna do?" she asks, not seeking an answer.

He smiles and gives it anyway, leaving both of them suddenly bare.

* * *

The suit coat is hardly noticeable against the rest of the garish ensemble, but nothing would be worse than giving the impression that he doesn't have some _pride_ in his appearance. It wouldn't do to be half-assed now that he's got such a good thing going.

It's light blue and scratchy, swiped from a teller who was being done a favor by its disappearance, for it looks _much_ better on his own lithe form, seams no longer stretched and the swing of the arms perfect.

Patting the teller's separated shoulder, he's sure to thank him for the lovely gift.

* * *

He almost insists that the pants should be a tailored affair, but when he spots the Victorian theater troupe in its latest Wilde adaptation, he can't hold back a smile, sizing up the living mannequin on stage.

He hangs the actor by one of the curtain ropes, not smiling, just waiting as the man kicks and fights, trying desperately to remove the noose even as his life is stolen from him. With a last gag, he goes limp, his eyes still open in shock.

They're a perfect fit, and that finally brings a smile to him, art coming to life.

* * *

He doesn't envy the man currently dangling precariously off the bridge, arms flailing in a fruitless attempt at self-preservation, and he leans down, con_cerned_, really, and smiles.

"_How_ did you get there?" he asks, clueless, of course, and the man screams, seeking mercy.

He cocks his head and makes a show of thinking. "My shoes," he begins, "the soles, they're wearing out. You don't mind?"

He unties the faded loafers, chuckling, and pulls one off, leaving the man closer to death, only one leg now holding him to the bridge. "One _more_," he grunts, and pulls it off, waving goodbye.

* * *

Flopping down on the rumpled bed, he smiles up at the popcorn ceiling, committing the new surroundings to memory as quickly as he'd murdered the former occupant – he's not one to bother with leases, even if he could easily find a landlord down here willing to overlook a criminal history that would overstuff the average mailbox.

It's damn cold, his toes frozen inside his shoes, and he sits up to slide open a dresser drawer.

He giggles when the varied colors stretch out over his calves, and he wiggles his toes, encased in purple and green and yellow, finally warm.

* * *

This particular heist did _not_ go well. He's hoofing it despite himself, hating that he's afraid of retribution, and he hides his face, trying to blend in with the other homeless.

When he sees one man, not even fear can stop him, for that's just a _lovely_ coat.

Wad of cash in hand, he buys it with ease, and the man's trying hard not to stare at the scars.

He smirks back. "I'd, ah, be careful who sees you wearing that coat – they're gonna come looking for me."

"Who?" the bum grunts back, voice raspy.

He's already walking away. "_Every_one."

* * *

He learned to wear gloves when the sting of blades and recoil of guns wore down his fingers to nothing but ache (and to damn with fingerprints – what would they _find_, anyway?) Sitting on the subway, fidgeting in thought and boredom, he spots a pair on the man at the other end, the creak of the leather loud in the otherwise empty car.

The man laughs at the prospect of a fight, remarking on his scrawny form, but _oh_, sharp wits and nimble fingers easily trump sloth and brawn.

There's a bloody handprint on the door when it dings open.

* * *

There's a marked disadvantage to, ah, _acquiring_ from anyone but a tailor, and he's disappointed to find that the socks never stay on, moving from his calves to his ankles over the course of the day. Damned if he's ever thought about methods of keeping them upright, but, staring at the garters holding up the stockings of the willing villainess in front of him, he smiles wickedly. They're soon gone, lost in gasps.

Afterward, they snap against his skin, just tight enough, and she gives him a knowing glance each time he walks past her, laughing at her own gift.


End file.
